


Sweetest Kill

by RedSmileyFace



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horror, Angst, F/M, Halloween, Rough Sex, Sad Ending, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-31 00:06:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedSmileyFace/pseuds/RedSmileyFace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>HAPPY HALLOWEEN! </p>
<p>The vampire, Sandor, saves a girl from rape, and then proceeds to desire her for himself. Guilt follows. Everyone dies, but at least Joffrey is first to go. >:)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweetest Kill

**Author's Note:**

> I set out for straight up horror and porn without plot... but somehow angst and philosophy got in there too? Oh well... I'm sure the amount of horror will be enough to turn some heads. Muwahahahaha...! *MINE IS AN EVIL LAUGH*
> 
> HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!

Sandor was not a good man, neither when alive nor undead. He holds to two rules only: never apologize, and no harming children. 

He stares at the dead girl in his arms, the puncture wounds on her neck proof of his part in her passing, and he shudders. He leans his head towards the girl’s as if in prayer, perhaps it is, and he whispers, “I’m sorry.” 

Centuries ago, Sandor’s brother, Gregor, had turned him into a vampire, into the blood-sucking monster that he is now, undead and almost uncaring. His brother had also shoved his face into the sun, causing him to be permanently scarred for eternity as the world’s ugliest vampire. The trick to lure victims in with beauty was rendered useless, beyond the already stupid function of having to pretend to _like_ one’s meal, before devouring them. As if they needed the extra help hunting prey.

It was early on, perhaps not even a vampire for ten years, and Sandor decided: never would he be like his brother: a cold hearted killer who played with their food before, and sometimes after, drinking; as he did with Sandor. That very trait of Gregor’s caused him to be careless, to drain a poisoned snake of Dorne, to have died burned inside out… No, Sandor would never torture his prey, and he would never father more of his kind either. 

With Gregor gone, Sandor toured the world, aimless, had his fill of criminals. No matter how “civilized” the world became, there was always some from of depravity to find. Laws changed, punishments were more prudent, less harsh, yet Sandor always held to his own code: slaughter first, questions later. And if he had been wrong, well, tough luck, there was no use crying over it; Sandor had no use for fickle, full of holes, human law; for “saving” humans when they would just die later on. 

Science. Now that was a law one could appreciate. Laws of nature, survival of the fittest, there was no reason to deny Mother Nature her cruelty. Vampires were designed to hunt, attract, and butcher. Their very being sang with joy at the completion of a good meal. It was the best feeling, the very sweetest, to kill and feel the ecstasy of blood _thrumming_ through their desiccated veins, making one feel strong, warm, _alive_. Any animal felt euphoric when using bodies for procreation, so who could blame a vampire for adoring the act of draining blood in order to turn another? Sex, for a vampire, took second place to feeding. 

And, as any animal in the kingdom instinctively identifies what would be best to consume, so too vampires knew what would make them strong. 

Take the girl in Sandor’s arms, an A+ blood type, the most attractive blood type of all for Sandor: his own. He knew it the instant he smelled her, but had thought to turn and walk away from her, for she was young and innocent. However, her boyfriend would have raped her, had Sandor not intervened. He then had thought to kill the boy, and let her run away, as they usually did, and he would not have cause to fight temptation. 

But she had stood rooted to her spot, fear in her pools of blue, lips quivering in abject terror; a doe caught in the headlights. Her whole body seemed to grab at the brick wall of the alley behind her, while he stood towering over her, holding her erstwhile boyfriend between them. 

Blond hair yanked in one hand, the squirming body seized underneath his other arm, and Sandor’s teeth sunk into the pungent neck of the wormy little asshole that had been about to rape the poor angel across from them. For that’s what all children were, before they reached an age and became irredeemable: innocent angels. 

The boy slowly stopped struggling, at one point passing out. Sandor continued to drain him dead, even if B- was his least favorite flavor. He kept waiting for the girl to run. Practically _begging_ her to do so, but she did not know his ways, and stayed rooted to her spot.

Sandor licked the last bit of blood from the boy’s neck, looking at the girl and unable to deny that licking _her_ neckwould be a brand of heaven, and let the body crumple ungracefully to the ground. The girl spared a look at the body, and then returned his gaze again, whimpering and cowering in fear. 

Well if she wanted to stay, he’d not be responsible for his actions. 

She started to lower herself to the ground, as if to make herself into a ball, but Sandor grabbed her shoulder and lifted her up towards him, causing her to involuntarily crash into him. He seized her with both arms, holding her close, sniffing her divine scent. 

Blood coursed through his veins now, courtesy of the abusive boyfriend, and his cock swelled with the new blood; fueled not only be copper, but by desire: she was his blood type, and beautiful besides. 

He had not been celibate his whole life, indeed not. In fact he had raped his fair share of unlawful women, and feeding off them as well. It served its purpose of killing two birds with one stone. But never had he an innocent, or so young. In all his life, (he had made it from barbarism in the medieval times to the modern age full of irony) never once had he been in quite this situation. The girl always ran away. Or was a different blood type that was easier to ignore… 

He should have been able to let her go, he was full and sated… but he couldn’t ignore her tears, at once wishing to soothe her and devour her all at once. She was an angel put on this earth for Sandor’s mercy, and torment. Mother Nature was surely not here, and the gods were being cruel to the girl. What had she done to deserve this, to deserve _him_? 

Or maybe they were tormenting Sandor, testing his resolve to turn away from this creature that could spell either his redemption, or doom. 

He traced this girl’s auburn hair with his nose, crooked and sharp as it was, and then sniffed her neck, filling his senses with her scent and clouding his head with desire. Pupils dilated, he licked her neck, and heard her answering whimper. 

“Pl…. pl…ppp…pl….” she stutters. 

He looks up from her neck, noticing her turned face, the tears falling down, the bruise on her cheek from the boyfriend… he traces it with a cold hand, before grabbing her chin and bringing her face towards his. “You should have run.” He says, before taking her plump lips between his, sucking and tasting her vitality and youth: a wine more heady then the driest Dornish Prince… 

He _must_ have her. Afterwards, he’ll let her go, let her live her life, and will never torment her again. He’ll even be gentler then what the boy had been planning, if the bruise was any indication. Then she would never have to see him again. But he would have her, yes he would. 

Aware that she was still frightened, he releases her from his tight hold only to lightly trace her body with his hands, feeling curves a statue dreamed of, hearing a heartbeat no woman he dared come close to had: healthy and youthful. 

She still shook, cold and afraid, little miniskirt and bright red halter-top doing little to shield her from his wandering eyes or nature’s cruel winds. 

“Shhh… You’re all right, Little Bird." He whispers, "So tiny, fearful, fragile… so far from her nest.” He caresses her arms, though his hands are far from warm, and grabs her hands in his. So dainty, so tiny, so beautiful; he wants to be surround be her, _all_ of her. He gently places her small hands upon his broad shoulders, hardly feeling their weight, but burned by her heat.

Stepping closer to her, he grabs her ass, and lifts her, forcing a muscular thigh between her two legs, opening them to stand between. She gasps, fear foremost in her reaction. “Shhh,” he repeats, “I won’t hurt you.” He hopes he hasn’t lied. 

“What do you want from me?” She cries, soft and melodious.

“Give me this,” he pleads, surprised at wishing to persuade her, not force her, but willing to give words a chance, “give me this, and I’ll let you go, never to see me again.” 

“You won’t hurt me?” She asks, needing to hear it, feeling that she can’t trust him, but unsure how she can get away unscathed… 

He looks at her with anguish, for he knows enough of himself that it will be hard to let her go once he’s had her. So long as he doesn’t bleed her, though… he’ll try his damndest, damned as he is. “I’ll try.” He replies, truthful, able to give her that. 

As if she could know what it was for a vampire to give up a tempting morsel. She nods, afraid but hoping it goes as fast as it can. He can practically seethe prayers running through her pretty little head for him to be gentle. 

Grunting at her approval, little choice that she had in the first place, he grabs at her thighs beneath her miniskirt, and hefts them around his waist. He groans with pleasure as his hardened cock brushes against her core. She gasps as well, and he wonders at how much intimacy she’s had, for her to wonder at his presence. Smirking, he grinds into her, and she maintains a shocked expression: mouth open in surprise, shame quickly following. 

Her cheeks flame in embarrassment, and her eyes cloud with anguish. Quickly, her eyes dart to the ground where her boyfriend lay dead, and then close again. Surely she is not regretful of his demise, but perhaps she wonders if she shares his fate. He gave her his word, though, and she waits for him to get it over with. 

Growling, Sandor pulls at her neck with one hand, letting anger get the best of him for a moment. At her whimper, he calms again, and instead starts tracing her neck, feeling her smooth skin, the heat and pulse underneath, strong yet wildly afraid. He grinds against her in anticipation. 

Her legs flex around him, clenching as if to staunch her body’s betrayal against her wishes. She still does not want this, and yet her heat tells him another thing…. Perhaps his vampire attraction still worked in some ways, earning her interest through sexual appeal. He was built like a god after all, even if he didn't look like one. 

He follows the dip of her halter, tracing her breasts, and kneading them one after the other. Her head falls back, as she arches in a pleased manner. He wishes to bite them, but holds back… her innocent blood is not for him. Growling again, he removes his hand to her other thigh, and buries his head in her neck, pleading for release, pleading to have at her, pleading for his resolve to see her live follow through. 

His hand strokes the inside of one of her thighs, circling soothingly and gently. She tightens her arms around his shoulders, and her trust in him, small as it is, pleases him. 

He strokes her core over silk panties, surprised but further turned on at the wetness. Wasting no more time, he rips them away. 

As his hand fumbles with his belt and pants, he looks to her again, seeing her with face flushed, teary eyed, and afraid, yet excited.

Again he goes for her neck, kissing it, licking it, shushing her fears and encouraging her to hold on. And he slides home. 

Her scream reverberates through the alleyway, yet he hears none of it. Her blood, her innocent, precious, oh-so-delicious blood, invades his senses. He groans at the smell, more then her heated tight core. He grunts as he not only feels her blood upon his cock, but also sees it everywhere, his mind and eyes overflowing with red rivulets. 

When her cries turn to whimpers, he thrusts again, getting angry with everyone, at no one. She was a fucking _virgin!_ How could he be so stupid? All for a little cunt, a beautiful and wonderful tasty little woman.

Blood and anger fuels him, and he thrusts again, wishing to further bury himself in her, her warmth and comfort. She hangs onto him, gasps when he thrusts, moans when he retreats. Her arms encircle his shoulders still, as if to hug him, and he instantly loves her for it. No woman as ever held onto him like so, and he falls head over heels for her. This angel is his undoing, surely, for he’d do anything for her, had he been alive. 

It intoxicates him. There’s no saving her now… he thrusts again, eliciting another cry of pleasure, and he kisses her neck again. Right at her pulse point, erratic and energized. 

He thrusts again, and she shouts with joy. Blood, anger, love; he has her, will have _all of her!_ He bites her, giving her the vampire’s kiss, and she cries out anew, a beautiful sound it is. 

He thrusts again, and sucks at her neck, hearing her whimper with delight and pleasure, for she does not know what is happening. Her blood flows down his mouth, a morbid antithesis to her wet cunt absorbing his cock. 

And, OH! She tastes like nothing else! So tangy! So juicy! So warm! So… _everything!_ Groaning, he sucks faster, wanting all of it, all of her; he matches thrusts for every suck he has of her, and she cries for it all. Her little moans and gasps speak of her pleasure, and he can feel her blood flowing fast and furious through her, fulfilling her desire to mate, fulfilling her need to keep her heart pumping. She warms up, the adrenaline and blood speeding towards dangerous levels, and she feels false life… for soon it will not be enough. 

He goes faster, taking the last of her sweetness in more ways then one, and then she’s singing… one… last … time… 

He groans in bliss, feeling his seed hit her walls, dead though they are. Her core spasms with little aftershocks, milking him though it is worth nothing. 

He listens as her blood flows through him, her sweetness and heat suffusing through him, invigorating him and giving him a euphoric feeling he hasn’t felt since he was truly alive, centuries ago…

But then he feels her body limp, legs and arms just… hanging there. 

“No…” He pulls back from her, from the alley wall, and she follows him, her head has fallen to his shoulder like a child fallen a sleep on the adult.

“No!” He falls to his knees, maneuvers her from him, cradling her had in one hand, the other arm lowering her to the ground. Stupidly, he feels for her pulse, knowing it futile even if he should find something. 

There it is, the bird’s light flutter…. slowing… dying… 

He pulls her head to his chest, wraps his arms around her, and starts begging for forgiveness. Could a man repent in a night? An hour? A minute? Who knows, but surely redemption was a road too long for him to travel that night. 

And the unthinkable happens; his victim reaches out for him. Her slender arm climbs up his torso, as if unsure where it was. When it reaches his face, his burns, it stops there, and caresses him. 

He leans back to look at her, and she tells him, “You didn’t mean it.” 

Stunned, Sandor can do no more then grab at her hand, and hold onto it. This slip of a girl has undone him, and holds him as he teeters over a revelation. She sees him! Truly! As the man he wanted to be, as he was before all this happened, and for what he had planned his damnation to be. And yet though he failed himself, and her, this innocent angel has seen beyond the superficial, and forgave! 

There is still time. Time to honor her, and be the good man. He will join her, be her companion in the world beyond, whatever might be there. It might be fruitless, but he would never leave her now. 

“Don’t leave me.” She whispers, obviously in fear of dying alone, but ironically in answer to his musings. 

“I won’t.” He replies. “I’m sorry Little Bird. So truly sorry! I won’t ever leave you alone.” 

And she smiles. Pale she is, with gruesome bruises and a blooded neck; she is the most beautiful of creatures to him. 

“What’s your name?” He asks her.

She takes one last breath, and with her dying exhale, replies, “Sansa.” 

He stays with her, murmuring “Sansa” like a prayer, a hope, a dream. When the sun comes up, there is naught but the ash on the wind to signify his passing, showing that he has joined her on the road to redemption.


End file.
